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writer86 · 17 days ago

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𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚 𝐩𝐢𝐞𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞

Tru Veld after the mission to Korriban. Told in a series of short scenes. — crossposted to ao3 words: 4.6k

Ferus disappears down the temple’s stairs, and Tru Veld realizes he can do nothing to stop him. He watches the long shadow follow on the polished stone, and for a dizzying moment he thinks he might throw himself after it; he thinks he might drag Ferus by the shoulders, forcibly, selfishly. He thinks he might beg Ferus to not leave.

He doesn’t.

His throat fills with Korriban ashes, like on their mission, like an aftertaste of a curse.

So he doesn’t speak, and Ferus doesn’t speak either.

The long shadow vanishes down the temple stairs. The ancient stone statues stare holes into Tru’s back.

Darra's death is his fault, not Ferus'. He has caused this, not Ferus. Indirectly, as directly as a weapon passes from one’s hand to another. As directly as a vow of silence, as a dirty promise whispered against a better judgement. If anyone should be leaving, it should be him. Him. Not Ferus.

Then leave.

His feet are like the statues. Frozen.

You're a coward, Veld.

He watches the stairs for many long minutes, long enough for the golden glow of the sun to vanish under a cloud. Long enough for a thread to loosen in the force; unravel in the echoes of the galaxy. It snaps and falls and a certainty overcomes Tru so unshakeable and sudden it makes his chest clench.

He will not see Ferus Olin again.

He turns away.

ii.

He wants nothing but to go back to his room. His gait is fast, and the elevator cannot come fast enough. When it mercifully opens it isn’t empty. Shoulder against frame, Lumas blocks the entrance. Tru recognizes him from diplomacy lessons.

“Oi Veld” Lumas juts his chin up. “Cafeteria’s the other way.”

Tru gives his best attempt at a smile, a fake thing, removed from the rest of his body. “I’m not hungry.” He is, but the unspoken questions between Lumas’ teeth make him ill.

“Ask me another time, okay?”

“What.”

“Your eyes. You want to ask about Korriban. It’s very obvious, you know.”

Lumas’ presence in the Force shrinks. It gives Tru an idea that he is right, but it gives him no satisfaction.

Tru tugs his earlobe awkwardly. “Ferus just left.”

“You kriff me. He got expelled?”

“No... He left.” A silent moment passes. “I will miss him.”

Lumas stifles a snort. “I won’t”

Silver gaze flickers, and Tru is suddenly reminded that Lumas Etima possesses as much tact as a bantha letting one go on the street.

Lumas just pats Tru’s arm and moves past him. “Catch up ‘nother time, yeah?”

Not if he can help it.

iii.

His room is exactly like he left it, with all the ghosts of friendships he just lost.

On his desk lay multiple holo books he borrowed from Ferus. The candy wrappings Darra tucked in the half open drawer, still there ever since the last time they had to scramble for their lectures, running late.

Tru recalls, Anakin tripped over his foot, and for a short moment the place doesn’t feel like his room. It belongs to someone different. A different Tru Veld. Different and dislocated.

He finds it horrifying.

With cold, numb fingers he pries the drawer open, throws the wrappings at the garbage chute.

By the chute, a dimensional printer gleams sadly. It’s a very old model. An antique. Tru and Anakin carried it from the junk heap on level 1000 a while back. They decided to fix it, and agreed to look for the parts in their spare time. They almost finished it.

Now, a childish urge to trash it overcomes Tru. Un-jedi like. Pointless. Perfectly aware of it he unclips his lightsaber.

This time the blade doesn't even ignite.

Tru glances at it with a pursed lip, feeling ridiculous and betrayed.

Slowly, he lets out a sigh.

iv.

Ry-Gaul doesn’t have to knock, but he does.

He also enters before an answer is given.

Tru, crouched over the antique printer, turns to the tug of his master’s presence. Pale face like a marble mask.

His master, more than usual, regards him with gentle eyes, worried, old. He takes the lightsaber abandoned in the corner of the room, clips it to his belt, opposite side to his own hilt. Tru lets him.

“When I was your age,” Says Ry-Gaul. His height folds on the edge of the bed. “I too, lost someone close.”

Shame swells within Tru’s chest,

“I thought, like many do, that a hard mission will prove my fortes, but what it proved instead, was the lack of them.”

“I’m sorry.”

Ry-Gaul sighs. “We aren’t machines, Tru. We make mistakes. All of us.”

They lapse into silence, and for a moment, the only noise is that of the printer running a scan on its parts.

“I shouldn’t have —”

“Next time, you won’t.”

Tru tugs at his sleeve. Uncertain. He doesn’t trust himself with that.

The scan finishes with a whirr of unfit cogs, which is not unexpected, but Tru wishes something at least something could go right. Ry-Gaul in silent agreement helps with the fixing, but it is Tru who slips his flexible hands into the machine’s innards.

He dares ask, “Did the council assign us?”

There is hope in the crack of his voice, perhaps too much hope, perhaps he just wishes to run from the ghosts.

“Not this time, I’m afraid.” Ry-Gaul brushes Tru’s broken lightsaber with his thumb, like holding a wounded child, sympathetically.

Tru’s gaze slips away. Too transparent. Disappointed.

vi.

He wakes in cold sweat at the crack of dawn. Panting, he blinks away the dreams. He tastes ash on his tongue.

It’s Korriban’s curse.

The Padawans whisper to each other. For real this time, not like in the bedtime tales.

They poke Tru in the refectory, curiously, anxiously, they ask of Darra.

But Darra is dead, and Tru decides he will not elaborate.

Something dark hangs in the clouds.

It’s the curse, they say.

Everyone who left on that mission came back wrong.

Tru feels it too, feels wrong, like rust in water, like ash in his throat. Wrong.

vii.

He studies, attends lectures, reads Ferus’ books.

He falls asleep and wakes in cold sweat.

He studies, checks the printer, dreams the same awful dream.

He wakes up out of breath.

In the dojo at high noon, he thinks he sees a mane of red. Violet ribbon swaying in a breeze.

“You’re not focusing.” Ry-Gaul’s voice half registers. “Tru,” The master touches his collar bone, and Tru turns, dizzy, pale.

“I didn’t sleep good.” He says, shoulders arching down in defeat. “Can we stop?”

In agreement, Ry-Gaul puts his saber down and sits. Tru does the same.

“Then, talk to me."

viii.

Silence.

He hesitates placing his hands in Ry-Gaul’s. Silver fingertips stubbornly hover above the calloused palms.

"Do you believe in curses, master?"

Ry-Gaul studies him, he can feel it.

"Only the ones we inflict on ourselves."

A sigh follows, resigned, unsatisfied. “I think I hoped you would tell me it’s hogwash.” But he gets a feeling that Ry-Gaul knows this already, and when Tru raises his gaze to meet Ry-Gaul, the expression on his master’s face only confirms it.

At last, he entrusts his hands and closes his eyes. They breathe slow, almost in sync. They slip into the Force.

ix.

Breathe.

They stand in ancient soil, under billowing red clouds.

Breathe.

They descend into the Sith Valley, thick with death and decay.

Breathe.

They battle the droids, and Anakin leaves him.

Why did Anakin leave him.

Breathe.

They descend into the tombs.

Why did his lightsaber have to fail.

Breathe.

They battle Granta.

His wounded leg aches. His lightsaber breaks.

Why did it have to be Darra.

Tru shrinks.

“You mustn't.” Ry-Gaul squeezes his hands, but Tru jolts awake, breathless.

"You mustn't run.” A gentle hand lays on his shoulder. Comforting.

“This mission.” Tru gasps. “I cannot forget it. When I close my eyes, I still see her.”

Eidetic memory. Tru can recall too much. Now he wishes he couldn’t. The image of his dying friend persists under closed eyelids, sharp like knives, sharp to every grain and every trickle of blood. He doesn’t want to remember Darra this way. Not this way.

”What you see is a part of you.” says Ry-Gaul. “This memory you may not forget, but Tru, you mustn't shut it out. Only then you can make peace with it."

A grimace tugs at the silver lips.

“It may sound harsh, but give yourself time."

Why did it have to be Darra.

Careful movements straighten the edges of a flatprint. The four of them, goofy faces frozen in time.

A twinge of pain stings Tru's chest. He recalls the day Darra took these pictures, holding a flatcam with the force to fit all of them in the frame. She made such a sour face that they all copied it.

Tru never figured if Ferus joined them, or if he was simply annoyed.

While Tru ponders sending the flatprints to the archives, he still doesn’t know.

Hot tears start falling down his cheeks. The ink smears.

xi.

“It didn’t feel right not to do so, but She would punt me for showing you.”

He curls one arm around another, and feels again, like a silly stammering child on his first visit to the Council room. Struggling to meet Soara’s eyes, he wonders, in secret, if she resents him for what he has caused.

Soara only browses the flatprints for a few silent moments. When she speaks, her voice is fond. “Thank you.”

He takes it as a clue to not disturb her further.

“One moment, Tru?” The master says, and he obliges. Soara presses a smooth strip of silk into his hands. Violet. Ironed. Tru stares at it numbly.

“Don’t give me that look. Please take it.”

“I don’t— I shouldn’t— ”

But Soara regards him with that no-bantha-poodo stare that she is famous for. “I don’t exactly have where to put it.” She indicates her closely chopped locks. “Items need to be used, or there is no point owning them.”

His lips part.

“I’d rather give it to you, than throw it out.”

She wouldn’t throw it out and Tru knows. Maybe Soara doesn’t. Maybe she says so to convince him.

It works. Tru accepts the gift.

xii.

For three weeks straight the violet ribbon lays in Tru’s pocket, undisturbed.

On the fourth he ties it around his hair.

It doesn’t suit him.

xiii.

“You’re very bendy,” Comes a voice on a wide temple corridor. “You probably get this a lot but how do you stretch?”

Tan Yuster hurries behind him. Tru stops.

“Sorry” The boy throws vigorously. Hands clap together. ”I had to take a look. Master Kolar. says my footwork is lacking, and I noticed your maneuvers are very spot on.”

Tan Yuster is five years younger, so he and Tru don’t train together. Regardless, recognition pulls at Tru’s mind, much to his surprise.

"On the dojo’s balcony. It was you.” His reaction must be too much, because Yuster wavers. “Just a tiny look.”

Tru wants to laugh it off. A breath dies in his throat. “I thought I’d seen a ghost.”

Yuster watches him, then brightens.

“I was shielding, duh!”

xiv.

He steers the younger padawan out of an alleyway crowd.

“Hide your braid.”

They quicken their pace. The passersby send them glances.

Tru never had to wonder about the street smarts of his friends. Now he does.

It makes him worry about getting Yuster in trouble, worse kind than he and Anakin used to find. He knows that he should not push for it, even so,

They descend twenty levels via an elevator, each stop less shiny than the last.

Under the blinding neons of the galactic capital, Tru can only feel gladness that he isn’t alone for another night.

xv.

Yuster regards the mismatched shelvings with a complicated expression, he decides on a polite inquiry. "What place is this actually?"

“Useful one, half price everything.”

“And it will help me stretch?” Tru snorts into the back of his hand.

“It will help me get plastoid filament. One sec.”

They browse various tools for half an hour. Tru spends his leftover credits.

Like a cleansing, another kind of exorcism.

What they don’t spend in the store they spend in a caf in the upper district. Bright neons and colorful streets.

Yuster confesses he’s never eaten fidga, and this has to change tonight.

xvi.

They come back before the sun gets a chance to rise. Hurrying past the temple's side entrance like any of the pairs returning from an errand. All the glow lamps in the corridors are a dim warm yellow and the scene feels all too familiar. Like an echo in Tru’s bones.

A boy in a brown tunic drags Yuster by the sleeve. Offended, or concerned, it’s hard to tell. “Where were you? Can’t believe you left like that.”

“Ye, without us.” A girl with a haircut the color of flame tugs Yuster’s braid. Darra tugs Tru’s topknot.

“I was banned from holding credits, not from having fun.” She would tell him whenever he and Anakin snuck outside without her. Ferus would give them all a tired look of disapproval, pretending to be above the simple joys of ignoring a curfew.

“I had no idea you consider scrap yards so amusing.”

“— is fine, I was with Brother Veld” Tru blinks, brought to the present. “Hey Tru, next time let’s all get fidga. It will be my treat, okay!” Yuster grins at him, waving goodnight as his friends usher him towards the elevator.

“Yeah… Yeah.” He shrugs, returns the smile. “Why not.”

xvii.

Rain.

He wakes to the sound, and opens the window for the chilled air. Rain reminds Tru of Teeva, the silver ocean, abundant city canals. How he’d run home with water leaking into his shoes.

It reminds him of spotting a boy on the temple roof, standing, mesmerized by the droplets pouring down from the sky.

“It’s just water” Tru tells the boy and the boy gets wound up in excess. Flushed and defensive and puzzling.

Only later Tru would learn about the scorching sand planet where moisture is priceless, more precious than kyber. Only later, he’d learn the boy’s name.

xviii.

Morning.

Life continues. The steady rhythm of the Temple seems to pull Tru along. Just like a leaf becomes snatched by the wind, pushed onwards regardless of its desire. In times of clarity Tru knows this is for the best, he lets himself be pulled, he thinks he may be healing.

Then something insignificant happens, like his comlink signaling a message, and like a fool he thinks it may be from Ferus.

It isn’t.

Ferus doesn’t send messages, not even to his master.

But Tru is a fool, and he misses his friend.

And life continues. It has to.

xix.

Afternoon.

The printer comes to life on the ninth attempt.

Tru is proud, and then he is hollow. He wishes Anakin was here. It was their project. Not even the weight of the machine seems made for one person.

He brings it to the creche, helping himself with the Force to keep the bulk in place.

A young togrutan girl opens the door for him, but her eyes dim briefly.

"Sorry that i'm not who you look for?" Tru offers.

The togrutan girl shakes her head and makes way. "Master Sinube is over there, come, let me show you. Come!"

xx.

The initiates swarm them like moths swarm a flame. They watch Master Sinube connect the printer with his datapad, some other kind of antique.

“I’ve not seen one of those since the Battle of Cyclor,” says the master, cheerful, he pats the faux gold casing. “It’s in good condition too.”

Tru leans closer to observe the process.“I renovated it.”

He considers not saying more, but he shakes off the thought. “With Anakin. It was actually his idea.”

He observes the crowd of small hands poking on the clunky pad buttons. ”I think the younglings will like playing with it”

xxi.

Night.

Again it rains.

And again, Tru listens to the sound until his very last thought washes away.

"You will grow mold if you don't move soon" laughs the rain. His mind’s eye fills the blanks, the features and smile lines on the freckled face. Darra smiles. Mischief in her honey colored eyes.

“I’m pulled backwards, when I go.” says Tru.

The warm breeze enters through the opened window, clinging to the skin. Coruscanti air. Ash.

“Then move backwards.”

Hands press against his shoulders.

Tru snaps awake. It is still night.

xxii.

Ry-Gaul’s head tilts to the side in the crack of the door. Freshly woken.

"I'd like my lightsaber back, master."

"Now?"

"Now."

The door opens wider. The master smiles in deep relief.

"I began to worry that you may not come for it. That… you lost your need.”

“In truth, I was glad that you took it” Yes, glad to not face the reminder of his mistakes.

“Something changed.” The master observes.

“I can't outrun the ghosts. It is like you said. I must go seek them out… make peace.”

Ry-gaul nods.

“And master, permission to use your ship?”

xxiii.

Move backwards if you have to, but move.

In the darkened hangar of the jedi temple, a lone ship illuminates with the glow of its engines, rising towards the clouds of the atmosphere.

The navicomputer’s input history unfolds in front of the padawan. Tru’s attention stops on the latest entry on the list. Horuset system. Korriban.

The curse is in your mind.

He takes a deep breath and his head clears, and he knows instantly the place he needs to visit is elsewhere. Further back than his mission was, at the very source, where curses and ghosts come to life.

xxiv.

He brings nothing more but his utility tools, his broken lightsaber, and a warm coat.

A heart too heavy for his liking.

The planet swallows him indifferently into tunnels of ice. Neither judging nor encouraging nor promising the relief he looks for.

Inside the caves is a maze. It is said, one path for each Jedi that comes.

Tru’s vision darkens the further he goes. Only when he can’t see where he came from does he stop in complete dark. He ignites his glow-rod and sits on the icy ground. He begins to pick his lightsaber apart. Piece by piece.

xxv.

The blade and the Jedi are intertwined.

If that’s true, then what does it say about him? Tru peels aside the layers. The steel that got crushed by the droid, energy circuits that are marred from fruitless repairs.

What is a blade that cannot cut any good for?

What is a Jedi who cannot protect a life?

The various pieces soar in the air, unfolding, until the crystal at the center comes into view.

In the midst of concentration, a whisper, or perhaps only wind. “Be careful, you would not want to break it more.”

Tru lifts his head. The pieces fall.

"...Darra?"

"Why would it be Darra" speaks the voice, now too close to his ear.

“You killed her, don't you remember."

Tru turns sharply, lifts the glow-rod, the dim light catches on a silhouette. One pale hair streak distinct in the dark.

“You let her die, what does it make you?” The apparition pierces him with unworldly eyes, with open feeling, raw.

What does it make him.

“You're not real…" Tru decides. "But that still hurts. A lot ."

Not-Ferus steps closer, "I'm as real as you are" the wind howls across the cave, crisp and freezing. Then nothing.

xxvi.

The kyber is gone.

Pale hands that have turned red from sweeping the frozen snow clench in useless frustration. Gone is the steady pulse of energy, vanished, melted from existence.

Tru feels his unease settle like a hand clamping on his throat.

He pleads the cave to return his crystal. He receives no answer, no guidance from the howling wind.

Another blizzard must be starting on the surface, he notes, and he can only hope that his master’s ship survives the awful weather.

And he still has no crystal.

As if the planet itself tells him — You don’t deserve it .

xxvii.

Why did you come here Tru Veld.

The padawan walks, grows cold, grows hungry.

You should have left when you had the chance.

He grows weary, slips on ice, loses his glow-rod.

You should have left like Ferus left. You should have died in the sith tombs. You.

The padawan spreads his limbs on the ground, exhausted. One second he gazes at the cave walls, another, the solid rock becomes a deep valley, dry and hot from the sun. He sees Darra lay in the ash beside him. Their fingers almost touching.

It does not seem proper to suddenly be struck with so much gladness to be alive. It feels dirty, unfair. His chest heaves.

“I’m so sorry Darra. If I could swap places with you… I wouldn’t.”

He turns his head to take a good look at her. “I won't leave.” He says. “I will better myself so nobody pays for my mistakes again."

He places his hand on hers, it seems almost real. Warm and freezing at once. Then the illusion breaks into multitudes of light. Tru squints, shields his eyes.

The dark walls glimmer and Kyber sings. He realizes the crystal is in his palm.

xxviii.

To construct a lightsaber is an extremely personal thing. It’s a show of skill, and an ultimate exercise of patience. In the process a bond is formed The crystal becomes part of the Jedi. Something of the Jedi transcends the boundaries of the body. A separate existence, yet one and the same. Intertwined.

Elevated to greatness, the Kyber ignites as if the Force itself burst from the fabric of the universe.

And thus, the lightsaber bathes the cave in blue, singing a song of its newfound purpose, vibrant with energy. Two hearts beating in unison. Oh how he missed it.

xxix.

The sight of pristine white snow gives Tru a vertigo worse than somersaults in Aataru. He thinks he might fall, but something grabs him.

“Master…. For how long are you here?”

“From the beginning.” Ry-Gaul steers Tru down the mountain path trail that’s barely visible to the naked eye — So the blizzard was real.

“You followed after me.” Tru should have noticed the ship tracking him, but Ry-Gaul doesn’t seem to mind it. He only studies the padawan thoughtfully.

“How are you feeling?”

“... Like I could sleep for a week.” Tru smiles in what feels like ages, and means it.

xxx.

The padawan wakes from dreamless slumber, watching in silence how the hyperspace shimmers outside the ship. It almost lulls him back to sleep, but mostly gives him motion sickness.

“I received a message from the council.” Ry-Gaul speaks from the pilot seat. Tru straightens, suddenly alert. “We are to depart for Dakuyl. Senator Larar believes her political opposition planned a coup ”

“Dakuyl is not Republic space.” Tru blinks. It’s just a hunch. “ — but it will be soon.”

“Unless the opposition gets what it wants."

The padawan joins his master in the front. “They want to stay isolated?”

“Such strange times.”

xxxi.

They’re to supervise a session of the legislature, the assembly deciding the extent of the Republic's involvement on the planet. In a few days, all prominent local leaders will gather to take a vote.

“Most will be in favour” Mutters the old woman, a roomkeeper who passes Ry-Gaul the key to their lodging. "Republic will sponsor our Xoorzi farms that’s why.“

“Yet, it seems not everyone’s pleased.”

The roomkeeper shrugs. “A minority. What can they do?''

Indeed, their mission would go smoothly if they knew.

“She didn’t say everything” Tru locks their door.

Ry-Gaul brings a finger to his lips.

xxxii.

The padawan throws a piece of power cord on the floor, stepping on it until he hears a sound of crushed electronics. He motions to Ry-gaul to pass him the other ones. Two signal tappers, one holo bug.

“This kind of amateur work in a high grade hotel? Can’t be official security.”

“That is unlikely, or we'd not find it so easy.”

Only when they are sure their room is clean of spyware do they make plans. Tru realizes for the first time in a while that he feels like his old self again.

It feels good to be back.

xxxiii.

They’re to supervise a voting session of the legislature, but the session itself is fake. The real event has been rescheduled since the moment Dakuyl’s soon-to-be senator, Larar, had suspicions of danger.

But even with the fake voting, the protest and the violence are real.

In the midst of the mission, this violence seems to radiate even from the depth of space, from the very stars themselves, until they burn so bright that they vanish, taking Tru’s breath away with them.

“Are there any casualties?” Tru would ask, and receive a negative answer

“Not here, no. This happened far away.”

xxxiv.

Many beings died. Jedi. Tru doesn’t entirely understand it, not until the padawan and the master return from Dakuyl two days later. The significance of their successful quest seems to vanish the moment they step into the Temple halls. Fragrance of burned incense follows their steps, thick, almost choking.

Many Jedi died.

Just like Darra before.

Crowds trickle into the Pyre room, all hoods up, all the same funerary rites.

“What has happened?”

“Terrible things Padawan Veld... Unthinkable.” Master Ekim’s voice is husky and tired. One of his hands bandaged under the robe’s sleeve. “There is going to be war.”

xxxv.

Fire.

Some bodies are burned, and some could not be recovered. The names echo from the grandmaster’s speech, carefully, tenderly, all one hundred eighty six who have joined the Force.

Among them Lumas, and he and Tru never caught up.

Among them Yuster, and all their plans end in fire.

Unfathomable

Tru feels Ry-Gaul's hand on his shoulder, until he doesn’t. He is surrounded by a crowd of other Jedi, until he isn’t. The fire that begins to dim is the only indicator how long he has stayed in the room. At the verge of his awareness, he isn’t alone.

xxxvi.

There is something less of Anakin, some kind of injury, some wound trickling metaphorical blood into the force, but Tru decides he does not want to ask.

You’ve changed.

Does he mean Anakin or does he mean himself? Or perhaps he means all of them. The temple. The galaxy. Again, everything feels wrong.

“... You were there?” He steps closer, almost bumping elbows but he stops himself in the act. Anakin nods absently, not even looking his way.

“I was first…” he trails off and doesn’t finish, doesn’t have the words. Tru frowns, observing his cloaked profile.

“First? What do you mean first?”

The whole mission was to rescue a single Jedi team. A hundred lives traded for two.

“I was there okay? —” Anakin turns sharply, the dying fire reflects on his furrowed face. He, too, looks tired like never before. “What do you want me to say? I was there. You weren’t . Be glad for it.”

"I can’t believe this” Tru hears himself speak, as if he is somewhere far away, out of his own skin. “Tell me Anakin, how many times will someone have to die because of you?”

There is no reply, and Tru doesn’t wait for it.

xxxvi.

The white helmets come and go and fight and die no matter what he does. No matter how careful they all are, how much intel they collect. Jedi die. Clones die. Planets become reduced to gravel and bones. No matter how many battles are won, one ends and another begins.

Sometimes Tru can’t believe his thoughts.

— In the midst of grueling combat, he remembers Darra traversing the red Korriban sands, remembers her smile, and feels almost glad that she passed away. At least she was saved from this heartbreaking war. At least, she doesn’t have to witness the galaxy burn.

#other peoples' writing #SO HEARTBREAKING SO GOOD #star wars legends

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